Price of the Debtor
by Sunsetter Nymphetamine
Summary: The year is 2786. 140 years ago, the world government announced the successful culmination of its high-profile genetic experiments. The result, the government claimed, lay in genetically engineered "miracle medical equipment" called angels. Through various circumstances, Sam, Dean, and Castiel come together in the movement to free the angels and send them home.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, this is my first attempt at building a completely original world. Hopefully I can do it justice! I have never written sci-fi, and while the future setting is not the focus of the fic, since it sets up the world, it does play a key role. Please give me advice where it is useful, and ask questions if something is unclear.

* * *

At a mere four years of age, Dean Winchester had lost his home, nearly lost his mother, seen his first angel, and formed the one important belief that he would proudly claim held influence over every facet of his life. Angels were people just as much as humans, and deserved to be treated as sentient, autonomous beings.

Society as a whole did not agree. Angel rights activists were viewed on approximately the same level as historical animal rights and environmental groups—extremist fools who would sacrifice mankind for the sake of their precious beasts. Dean had never been able to bring himself to care. By age ten, he had wired his portable net link to receive updates from every major angel rights website and forum he had been able to find with his limited internet time; in middle school, he had founded a small angel rights supporter's club amongst his friends and peer group. On his eighteenth birthday he had received an official member's badge and paperwork from People for Angels for People, affectionately called PAP by its members and "crap" by the majority of the country. "They're government property, living medical equipment," was the sentiment that most people held about angels. They were a World Government project, after all. One hundred forty years ago, the government had pardoned several prisoners from Death Row on the condition that they submit to genetic testing, and from those tests, angels had been created.

The official line was that the genetic testing performed on the prisoners had granted them physical superiority over humans at the cost of their sentience and free will. From human beings, they had simply become bodies, receptacles for the physicality of human experience, but without any of the things that made humans_ people_. They did not think, nor did they feel beyond physical sensation. Mindless vegetables with the ability to heal in the blink of the eye and survive through fatal injuries and sicknesses, they were the perfect empty vessels into which to transfer human illness and wounds. At approximately the same time as the genetic tests had resulted in the creation of angels, researchers had created a technology of molecular transference, allowing physicians to transfer the plights of a given patient into another being, and angels were the perfect solution. No ethical dilemma over killing animals—angels could heal almost instantaneously from the words blights of mankind, eradicating cancer cells and knitting together shattered bone in the time it would take to make a pot of coffee. It was neat, practical, and wholly ethical.

That was the official line. The media touted it, the government confirmed it, and society as a whole believed it. Thinking otherwise made Dean a rare exception.

The memory was as fresh in his mind as if it had occurred yesterday, even though it had been over twenty years ago. Running after the gurney that wheeled his mother's burnt, blackened body into a hospital room, tripping over his own feet as he sobbed, his baby brother tucked into his father's arms, tears streaming down John's face—it all could have been yesterday. The doctor's voice was clear in his mind as any he had ever heard—calling a code blue, shouting for an angel. Dean remembered the soft, tawny wings of the short, thin man, and how the tears had dried abruptly on his face as he met rich, golden-brown eyes. Dean had stared, awed, as the doctor placed the winged man's limp, unresisting hand on his mother's burned, once-beautiful face.

The scream that tore from the angel's throat had sent Dean clapping chubby hands over his ears. The burns had seemed to siphon off of Mary's body, racing up the angel's arm, blackening his flesh and fading, leaving behind smooth, flawless pink skin. The nurse had knelt beside Dean, assuring him that it was all right, the angel did not actually feel pain, the cries were simply a physical reaction to his body's stimulus. But Dean had looked up into the man's eyes, that rich, beautiful gold, watery and glazed with agony, and he had _known. _The nurse was wrong, and the angel was hurting.

Dean had tried to tell the doctor such, but the woman had ignored him, assuring John that Mary would be all right with a few days rest, and Dean was, like many small children, simply so overwhelmed with the stress of almost losing his mother that he thought he saw something that wasn't there. The angel had been taken away, but not without turning to glance at Dean first. _Thank you for trying, _the angel had mouthed, and again, no one had believed him.

For the next several years, John and Mary had entertained Dean's notions about angels much in the same way as they would have entertained his insistence on the reality of an imaginary friend. And then, when Dean was nine years old, tragedy had struck the family. Five year old Sam had vanished, taken from his bed in the middle of the night, never to be found. Dean had discovered, in the difficult days to come, that he had to grow up very quickly, and for a while, angels were the farthest thing from his mind. By the time Sammy had been gone for a year, some of the pain had dulled and he was back into his precocious angel rights activism, but his parents no longer had any patience for hearing about the matter.

At twenty-eight years old, Dean had his degree in Engineering, a vintage ground-car, his own 2736 air car—what a sweet model she was—and his own house. None of that held a candle to the importance that his position in PAP. Now, after ten years of loyal membership, the higher-ups in the organization had seen fit to assign Dean to an undercover surveillance mission. Technically, it was not illegal, and Dean was determined to do the best that he could. He would be taking a job as an electrical engineer at one of the angel based genetic testing facilities scattered throughout the country, gathering information. Every tidbit he could snag would count. As soon as they could prove the sentience of angels, the organization could start a true push to end the dreadful institution of medical slavery, and bring freedom to the angels once and for all.

0o0o0o0o0

At twenty-four springs passing, Samael Watchkeeper ought to have been still a child, small and wide-eyed and under the protection of his elders. Humans had an accelerated aging rate, however, and three years to an angel had passed in the span of one year for him for his first fifteen springs. It had been a relief for both him and his guardian, Lucifer Soulstealer, when Naomi Spellcrafter had developed a syrup that would slow Samael's aging process down to match the rest of the tribe's. Samael was now the physical and mental equivalent of an angel of fifty-four springs, and would continue to grow at a regular pace, so long as he did not miss too many dosages. He regretted the many seasons that he had lost due to human growth, but at the same time, it was good that he could be of use to the tribe all the sooner.

Samael had only vague memories of his time living amongst his biological people. He had had a mother, a father, and a brother, he knew that. He had lived in their world of loud contraptions and strange devices, fated to grow up in a barbaric society until the night when Inias Blighthealer had crept into his human home and stolen him away. At the time, no human had ever lived among the angels, and Samael knew that he had been an experimental child. He was simply glad that he had been chosen, and taken from the barbarians who would have raised him to be a slavemaster and a brute, to live amongst the peaceful, civilized angels.

0o0

_It was loud in the mountaintop caverns, and the strangers with wings chattered in a language that Sam had never heard. He cried, kicking fruitlessly at the strange man who had grabbed him from his bed, screaming for his mother, his father, his big brother. The winged man who sat atop a pile of soft white pillows regarded him sternly, conferring with the dark man and the scarred man on either side of him._

_"This is a dangerous gamble, Inias," the apparent leader said finally, regarding Sam's captor with steely eyes. "The humans have taken so many of us already. There is nothing to suggest that they are anything other than malevolent beasts—beasts who may come looking for their stolen whelp."_

_"I understand." The harsh, steady tones of his captor rang hard in Sam's ears, and he wailed, burying his face in his hands. He just wanted to go home! He wanted Dean! "But this child is young. He has not had the time to be indoctrinated into the barbarous ways of the humans. Many of us think that they might have the capacity for civility, and if we bring one of them up in our ways, and he grows up as any angel child would, then we will know for certain."_

_"And what good would that knowledge bring us?" the dark man rumbled, raising his eyebrows as he stared down his nose as Sam. Sam whimpered, dropping his chin to his thin chest, rocking back and forth miserably._

_"There are a number of possibilities," the man who had taken Sam said finally. He knelt and laid a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, rubbing his back soothingly. "If human children can be raised to be civilized, we can bring them up amongst us, and then send them as envoys to their people to beg the release of our brethren. They can work among our sentries, for if they are caught, they will not be enslaved as we would be. They can help us understand basic humanity, the better to know how they function, and how to save our brothers and sisters from their captivity."_

_The three men atop the platform exchanged a shared glance. "We will test your theory, Inias," the leader said after a long moment. "The child has nine years to prove that he can grow up as a decent being, a civilized person. If he succeeds, then by that point, he will be a full member of our tribe, and no further action will be taken. If he fails, he will be killed, and his body returned to the humans as an example."_

_The man beside Sam smiled. "I am sure he will succeed," he said gratefully._

_"Lucifer." The scarred man turned his head towards the leader of the trio. "You have had the misfortune of living amongst humankind. You speak their language. Will you be able to take this child into your home and raise him, teaching him our ways and speech, without exacting reprisal upon him?"_

_"He is but a child," the scarred man said dismissively. "I do not fear him. If Inias is confident that he can learn to be a civilized being, then I will gladly assist in his experiment."_

_"Then take him into your home," the leader said, his calm voice commanding and final. "Learn his human name, and christen him appropriately. Bring him up as your own, but do not grow attached to him until he has shown signs of civility and proper angelic behavior."_

_The scarred man nodded and descended from the platform, coming to a halt in front of Sam. He crouched, and took Sam's hands in his, gently pulling them away from his tear-streaked face. _"Little one, what is your name?" _he asked, the first English words that Sam had heard since he had been stolen away._

"S-Sam." _He sobbed, throwing himself at the winged man, clinging to him as he wept. _"I want to go home. I miss Mama and Daddy and Dean!"

_The man shushed him, gathering him gently up in his arms. "He calls himself _Sam,"_ the scarred man said, turning to face the two remaining on the platform. "I propose that we call him Samael. It will be simple enough for him to learn, as similar as it is to his human name."_

_"Very well." The dark man shared a glance with his fellow before continuing. "Take Samael and prepare him a place in your set. We will convene in a month for a report on his progress."_

_The scarred man nodded, leaving the cavern at a steady clip, making his way towards a dense copse of trees. _"My name is Lucifer," _he told Sam, leaping into the air and fluttering towards a small, camouflaged structure high up in the branches of an aspen tree. _"And you are _Samael _from this point forth. You will be staying with me to learn the ways of the angels."

"But I want my family," _Sam sobbed, wiping his eyes hard with a pudgy hand._

_Lucifer regarded him with sympathy. _"I know you do, _Samael," he said, taking Sam's hand lightly in his own. _"But we need you. You will grow, you will learn, and one day you will understand."

0o0

Samael owed everything to Lucifer. It was Lucifer who had taught him Enochian, and who had raised him to understand proper culture and behavior. Lucifer had been the one who had sought out Naomi and begged her to create a draught that would allow Samael to age at a normal rate. Lucifer had taught him how to hunt, how to track, how to keep guard and watch, picking up every detail that might suggest that something was out of the ordinary. When Samael had grown too big to be carried from place to place, Lucifer had taught him how to climb, allowing Samael to make up for the handicap that was his lack of wings. Most importantly, he had ensured that even though Samael was not an angel himself, he never felt that he did not belong among his tribe. Samael might have been born a human, but he belonged among the angels, and Lucifer ensured that he never thought differently.

When he was a mere fifteen springs past, the equivalent of an angelic 45 seasons due to his then accelerated growth, Samael had been granted the name Watchkeeper. It was his duty to keep sentry for the tribe, warning his fellows when humans came too close, scaring away predators and interlopers. Even without wings, Samael was useful to his tribe, and the pride in being good at his job had blossomed in him swiftly and strongly. His birth may have lain with humans, but his birthright lay with the tribe, and Samael would give his life to keep his adopted people safe.

0o0o0o0o0

35712 had never known a breath of free air. He had been born on a breeding farm, a cruel institution designed to pump out angels for medical use and testing purposes. Female angels were expected to breed until their ovaries ran dry, at which point they would be sent back to the hospitals and the laboratories. Several male angels were kept at each farm, essentially at stud, forced to produce offspring for the unrelenting machine of medical production.

35712 did not know who his mother was, nor who his father was. He had lived at the farm, among his fellow angels, for the first fifteen years of his life, long enough to learn Enochian, the tongue of his people, and to be given a name, Castiel. His name and language, he had since been forced to remind himself of primarily in his head, for once he left the farm, he was no longer granted leave to speak. Humanity at large could not know that the angels had a culture, had the ability to understand language or name their own. The few times Castiel had been caught speaking in youthful foolishness after leaving the farm, he had been beaten, glossy black feathers ripped from his wings until even his accelerated healing abilities had unable to bring them back at a proper speed. It had not taken him long to learn.

At his first hospital, Castiel had become acquainted with a free-born angel, 13590, or Gabriel, as he informed Castiel he had been called. Gabriel had been Castiel's rock, speaking to him through the bars of their cells whenever the guards had been out of earshot. He had spun for Castiel a picture of high mountains and tall trees, of cavernous meeting halls and warm homes made of wood and earth. Gabriel's tribe had been comprised primarily of warriors, and Gabriel himself had been a young, proud warrior of 49 springs—49 years, he had explained to Castiel—when he had been taken, shot down with a sedative and dragged away to be broken of his culture. His brother Lucifer had come for him, and had been taken as well. But Lucifer was strong and proud, and he had escaped with his life, promising to come back for Gabriel as soon as he could rally the tribe. Gabriel had been shipped away before Lucifer could return, and he had never seen his brother again.

It was the sad lot of angels that they could never count on keeping a friendly connection. Castiel had hardly been fifty years old when a testing facility coordinator came nosing around the hospital, inclined upon selecting angels for research purposes. Castiel had been among those selected, and had been taken away from Gabriel, the closest thing to a friend he had ever had. He was only fifty two now, and yet every day, he begged for death.

Life at the hospital had been difficult and painful. Every day, Castiel had been forced to take illness and injury into his body, burning the infection from his own cells to spare the human from whom it had originated. Compared to the testing facility, the life had been a posh utopia. Here, Castiel passed his days in a cage so small he had to bend his head when he wanted to sit, his knees grazing bars if he let them fall away from his chest. Being in the cage, as terrible as it was, was nothing compared to what he endured out of it. His handler, a cruel man named Alastair, claimed to be interested in learning exactly how the angel's healing process worked, so that genetic scientists could work it into the human genome. After a mere two years, Castiel was certain that this was not the man's true intent. He was simply a sadist who took pleasure in hearing Castiel scream.

Castiel had seen attempted suicides back at the hospital, and had healed many of them himself. He longed for the freedom of human beings to bleed out from a simple blade to the wrists, for a body that would shut down if he simply fed it enough chemicals. Life as a test subject was not living at all; he was merely existing, and he had centuries to go before the sweet embrace of death finally claimed him.


	2. The New Engineer

Warning for vivisection and non-explicit gore.

* * *

"Your references are impressive," research director Meg Masters said, glancing up from Dean's record. Dean smiled, awkwardly pushing thick-framed glasses up his nose. Having grown up without any sort of visual impairment, it was hard to remember that he allegedly needed spectacles, but the glasses housed a hidden camera behind one-way glass frames, and he would need to wear them at all times to gather necessary footage. "Tell me, why do you want to work with our facility?"

_Because I want to wrest every single angel from your damn greedy hands. _"I'm not getting the challenge I need at my current job, and I heard you guys are hiring," Dean said easily, flashing the woman a charming grin. "I figured that being a research facility and all, you could use someone to keep the electrical equipment running smoothly. I'm one of the best qualified people you'll ever get for that sort of thing."

"Clearly. We don't get many applicants with masters degrees outside of the direct research program." A wide smile split the woman's round face, and she stretched out a hand, her brown curls bouncing slightly with the motion. "Well, you've passed the initial background check. We still have to work the in-depth security clearance, but for now, everything seems to be in order. Welcome to the team, Dean Winchester."

Dean shook her hand, savage triumph rising up in his chest. _Score. _His superiors from PAP would be proud. He was in.

Meg took Dean around the facility, giving him a basic tour of the premises. Dean knew better than to think that he would get in to any of the testing rooms on his first day, but his sharp green eyes took in every classified and restricted door. Behind each door was an angel, captive and abused, and he would get them out if it was the last thing he did. For now, it was time to pretend that he gave a shit where the vending machines were, and how much it cost per week to join the facility's coffee mess.

"This will be your office," Meg said, directing Dean to a small, out of the way room equipped with a desk, a chair, and a tiny bookshelf. A large screen, likely for distance conferencing, took up the entire far wall. "Your position is senior enough that you've escaped the cube farm. Congratulations," she smirked, arching a well-shaped eyebrow. Dean laughed, as was to be expected of him. "I'll get you set up with a computer so you can keep an eye on reports and goings on. You won't have much in the way of a staff, but we don't need more than one or two engineers on payroll at any given time."

"So, I take it I will be keeping record of issues, and trying to work out any problems' causes and document their solutions when I'm not fixing things?" Dean asked, setting his toolbox down on the chair.

"Yep. Your job will hopefully be to keep the place running, so that you don't have to spend too much time going from place to place doing upkeep." Meg grinned. "It's a lot of pressure. Think you can handle it?"

Dean laughed. "My last job was at a power plant, and my supervisor hadn't even finished college," he lied easily. The bit about his job was true, but his supervisor had been a very educated man—a family friend who had taught his father in college, in fact. He knew that Bobby would corroborate the lie if asked, so there was little risk in pretending. He doubted the hiring director would bother to pull Bobby's records, and even if she did, he would be long gone by that point. "I think having the freedom to keep things running without having to answer to someone like that will be downright liberating."

"Then I'll leave you to settle in. The guys from IT will swing by to set you up with a login in a few minutes." With that, Meg left Dean alone in his office, no doubt on a schedule to go torture some poor angel somewhere in the building.

Security was tight in testing facilities, mostly to ensure that groups such as PAP did not get the information they would need to break in and bust out the "inventory", but they did not ban personal coms outside of the restricted rooms. Dean pulled out his text com and tapped out a quick message to his PAP co-member, Garth. **_Got the job. Drinks are on you tonight. _**It was delicious, how completely innocent the message was. It spoke volumes to the organization, but if anyone went through his com, all they would see was a gloating message from Dean to one of his buddies.

His text com blinked, signaling a reply from Garth. **_Nice try. Drinks are on Mr. Fizzles. _**Dean chortled, pocketing the device. Leave it to Garth to acknowledge receipt of the message with a reference to his beloved sock puppet.

A cheerful red-headed woman came into his office not a few minutes later, a slim screen clutched in her hand. "Hey newbie!" she greeted Dean with a positively infectious grin. "Charlie, from IT. Hear you've decided to sell your soul to the corporate world like the rest of us!"

"The corporate world put out a well-paid hiring notice. Who am I to resist the siren's call?" Dean asked, winking at the woman.

Charlie laughed. "Anyways, it's a bit of an older model, but this should get the job done," she said, plunking the screen down on Dean's desk and locking it into place. "Full touch screen, of course—we're not that backwards. The 3-D's a bit iffy, but I don't think you'll need it very much for engineering. Fifteen terrabytes of space, and any hackers would have to get past me." She bared her teeth with confidence. "They won't."

It was a shame that such a lovely seeming woman as Charlie worked for an angel testing facility. Under any other circumstances, Dean would have to flirt shamelessly with her. Wasn't that just the world—suckering even the nicest of people into unethical practices for the promise of a fat paycheck. Dean reminded himself that officially, he was supposed to be doing the exact same thing.

"Well, that's that. Go ahead and create a username and password, and you should be good to log in from here on out!" Charlie dusted her hands off, clearly satisfied. "Well, I'd better get back to my desk. You'd think these crazy kids grew up in the twenty third century, the way they screw their computers up."

"Awesome. See you around, Charlie," Dean said, returning her smile. With his office empty again—hopefully for good—Dean settled in to scan the company's official website and glean what information he could about the facility.

The place was perfectly legal, abiding by government standards to the point where most people would deem it untouchable. Dean read through the company page, noting the pertinent information in his head to pass along to his superiors with PAP. Roman Genetic Corp. was one of the forerunners in genetic analysis, with the stated goal of cracking the details of the angel genome, to allow scientists to splice the healing ability of the angels into ordinary human DNA. As far as the law went, it was a perfectly legitimate enterprise. As far as ethics went, Dean considered it about as ethical as a puppy mill. Oh, he was going to enjoy bringing this place down.

Dean was nearing the end of the workday—not the most productive of days, but it was his first after all—when his computer dinged, signaling the arrival of a video communication. He pressed accept, and a 3-D face appeared, hovering slightly over the screen.

"New engineer, right?" the bearded man asked, his voice nasal and grating. "This is Alastair from testing. I seem to have short-circuited some of my equipment in my last test. Do you have time before you leave to come take a look?"

A jolt of excitement went through Dean's chest. It looked like he might have the opportunity to get footage of an angel after all. "Certainly," he replied, reaching down for his toolbox. "What room are you in?"

"Room 333," Alastair replied, his mouth twisting in a cold grimace. "I might still be at work when you get here, but you can work through some noise and distraction, I presume."

"Of course." As sad as it was, footage of an angel being tested upon might actually work to stir up some public sympathy. "I'll be right down."

Dean hurried down the hall, his heart pounding with nervous excitement. He would have to keep his cool and pretend to be unbothered by the contents of the room, but that was all right. He had trained for this. Any concern he showed could easily be passed off as the surprise of a newbie civilian.

Room 333 was a restricted room, blocked off by a heavy steel door. Dean swiped his employee badge across the card reader and pressed his thumb against the scanner for identity verification. The door swung open, leading to a bright room, all white walls and white tile floor and harsh white light.

Dean's breath hitched in his chest as he stepped into the room and caught sight of the angel in question. The being was beautiful, all pale skin and blue eyes and glossy black wings and hair. Tear tracks ran down his face, and he strained unconsciously at the bonds that held him in place on an operating table. Dean swallowed down rage as he realized that the skin over the angel's stomach had been sliced open, his skin peeled back and pinned to the table, exposing his internal organs to the cold, clinical air.

"Ah, the engineer arrives!" Alastair hurried forth, ushering Dean over to a large gamma scanner off in the corner. "Mm, I'm afraid it might have burned out from overuse. Unfortunately, I don't know the first thing about engineering, so I might be completely off the mark. My specialties lie in other places."

Yes, other places. Like torture. Dean swallowed hard, fighting the urge to look at the angel again. He had to seem unperturbed by the procedures. "Gamma scanner, huh? What, are you trying to make Bruce Banner?" he asked, the reference to historical pop culture sliding easily from his lips.

Alastair laughed harshly. "Hardly. Simply seeing what the subject's reactions are. The more we know, the more we can help, Mr…"

"Winchester," Dean said, gripping the scientist's hand firmly. Alastair's skin was hot and dry, very different from the slimy cold that Dean had been expecting. "Dean Winchester."

"Well, Deano, I'd appreciate it if you could get my machine up and running. Sorry to dash, but as you can see, I'm in the middle of a… procedure."

"Yes, I can see that." Dean followed Alastair's gaze to the captive angel. The being stared at Dean with hopeless, deadened eyes. It was clear that he did not expect help from the man—he was most likely used to all sorts of people coming through, doing their jobs without casting him a second glance. It was hard to tear his gaze from the angel, but Dean forced himself to turn his attention back to the scanner. He had to seem believable, or the jig would be up before it had even begun.

The scanner was well and truly wrecked. There was no way that Alastair had simply burnt the machine out from over-use—not if the water damage and congealed acid in the wires were any indication. "You've really done a number on this one," Dean said, glancing over at the man, shuddering as he realized that the scientist was elbow deep inside the conscious angel's open belly.

"Will you be able to fix it?" Alastair asked, digging around and pulling out an organ at random. A piercing scream wrenched through the air, and the angel convulsed as much as his bonds would allow, even as his body spurred to work, producing a new kidney to replace the one Alastair had taken.

"Yeah, but it's going to take time." Dean deliberately did not look at the angel, afraid that his face would give away his feelings about the matter. "I got in late today, since I just got hired, but I can stay a few hours to try and get it up and running. No promises, though. This is a big project."

"That's fine. I'd like it back as soon as possible." Alastair removed the pins from the angel's flesh, laying flaps of skin back over his stomach. New tissue knitted together so fast, it was almost like watching the incisions filmed in reverse. "Getting out of the room after hours shouldn't be a problem, so let me just put the subject back in its cage, and I'll leave you to work in peace."

"Works for me," Dean said, barely concealing his triumphant grin. Not only had he gotten into a room with an angel, but he was to be left alone with him? This was moving much quicker than he had hoped. Due to the sensitive nature of the testing, the restricted rooms were not equipped with surveillance cameras, or even audio recorders, so if Dean interacted with the angel, no one would be any the wiser.

Dean fiddled with the scanner, cleaning congealed acid off of the salvageable wires while he waited for Alastair to leave. Finally, the heavy door swung open and Alastair walked out, leaving Dean alone in the room with the angel.

Dean finished scraping off the acid—he did need to get some work done on the machine—and then set down his tools. Softly, hoping to not startle the angle, he stepped towards the undersized cage. It looked cramped and uncomfortable, and the angel was forced to huddle in a ball, his wings wrapped around his body.

Dean glanced at the serial number on the cage. 35712. "Hey there," he said softly, laying his hand carefully atop the cage's barred exterior.

The angel jerked, his bright blue eyes flying open. Warily, he stared at Dean, all unblinking gaze and distrustful eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you," Dean said, spreading his palms wide in a gesture of peace. The angel's eyes tracked his movements. That was good. Reacting to non-physical stimulus was good. Most people did not think angels had that capability.

"My name's Dean Winchester," Dean said, watching the angel's face for any sign that he understood. It was impossible to read that set, hardened expression. "I'm an engineer, not a researcher. Though I guess fixing these machines isn't terribly helpful for you."

The angel huffed. A hot, excited sweat broke out on the back of Dean's neck. If that wasn't a sign that the angel had understood him, then he was a goddamned ballerina. "I'm pretty sure you understand a lot more than most of us give you credit for. I'm right, aren't I?"

The look the angel gave him was downright sarcastic. Dean wondered what the being's voice would sound like, if he could speak. Dean was sure that he could, in theory, but signs of understanding were evidence enough. Who knew what sort of permanent damage would set in to a test subject's vocal cords? "Hey… 35712," he said awkwardly. It felt wrong to call the angel by his serial number, but he did not have anything else to refer to him by. "I know you're not just an empty shell. My mom, when I was a kid, almost died. The angel that—that helped her was more human than any of the doctors were that day."

35712 rolled his eyes, and Dean could not blame him. The angel had no reason to believe that Dean would actually help him, and therefore, his words were meaningless. "I do have to get back to fixing that machine," Dean said regretfully, standing up. It would help the angel more in the long run if he kept his cover. "I'm really sorry about that, but it can't be worse than vivisection, right?"

The angel scowled at him. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair, and turned back to the scanner. It was a start. The footage he had gotten today alone would put PAP ahead as a serious contender in the social rights arena by an exponential factor. Before, they had been running on the beliefs and personal observations of their members; now, with a short, one-sided conversation, they had video and auditory proof that angels were capable of understanding speech. How could anyone refute it?

0o0o0o0o0

"It's a start, but it's not enough."

Dean scowled at the head of PAP's regional branch, a stern, intimidating woman named Ellen Harvelle. "What do you mean it's not enough?" he demanded, crossing his arms indignantly. "He clearly reacted to what I was saying. Shit, Ellen, he managed to be fucking_ sassy _with me without saying a word! How can anyone deny that this is a sign of sentience?"

"Because people are morons," Ellen responded dryly. "Look kiddo, you know I wish this was enough. But if we want to bring this system down, we need to have the entire set-up by the balls. You're scratching the surface, and it will be enough to convince some people, but we're up against medical lobbyists, scientific lobbyists, and the damn government itself. We don't need evidence, we need hardcore, irrefutable _proof."_

Dean hated it when Ellen was right. Legally, the only way to free the angels was to get a personhood bill through World Parliament. Dean's evidence might be enough to convince the masses—and that was a big might—but it would never fly against legislators.

Dean sighed, resigned. "All right. I'll keep trying," he said morosely.

Ellen nodded. "See if you can get in with that same angel again. He seems pretty damn responsive." She extended a hand for Dean to shake. "I don't mean to pick on you, kid. Shit, in one day you've gotten more from this place than we have in a year. Our computer mole is gonna be mad as hell that you beat her out," she said with a grin. "You've got three months before we pull you. Make them count."

And make them count he would. Dean fully intended to get to work before Alastair tomorrow, to have some time with the angel before his tormentor came in. If he was lucky, he could get even farther, maybe come up with some sort of sign language to use with him. Ellen was right. It was a start, and that would have to be enough.


End file.
